A Promising Title
by Genevievey
Summary: Oneshot. Edith always had an appreciation for older books. This is really just fluff, masquerading as some sort of character study.


_AUTHOR'S NOTE: This little piece came to me while I was musing on Edith's feelings, for my other Edith/Anthony story. I hope that I've caught her character properly, and that this piece doesn't feel too convoluted - this is really just fluff masquerading as a character-study. I hope you enjoy - and do let me know, if that's the case! (I love knowing that Edith/Anthony fans are out there!)_

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A Promising Title

It had always been obvious to Edith, from the time she learnt to read, that books were a kind of magic. From _before_ then, even – the Crawley girls had grown up being read to by their parents and governesses – and the day she learned to work the trick for herself, Edith thought she would never want for anything again. Downton had an expansive library, and now she could delve into every adventure and philosophical argument and heart-rending poem of love that waited between the pages.

And it didn't take a genius to work out that the best titles, the most exotic – the ones that told you things you couldn't possibly know by looking out your own window – were the older books. The daily stuff, etiquette and such, that was all condensed into 'conveniently' slim volumes that were picked up so often by governesses and tutors that they never had the chance to gather any dust. No, the real magic was in those oldest of her father's leather-bound tomes: the ones written by people who really knew the human heart.

Mary never understood the attraction, of course. If she were ever given a first or second edition of some classic work, with a past-owner's name inked in the title page, she thought herself hard done by: a hand-me-down sort of gift. She didn't realise that she was holding a thing of value and beauty.

Edith knew differently. She had learned early on that a book was a thing outside oneself that nonetheless understood one's innermost heart and most secret longings. Sentiments that she never could have expressed herself, she found between the dusty pages of novels, written long ago by someone else. Indeed, it was often by long-dead authors that she felt best understood. She'd never forget the first time she read 'Jane Eyre', with tears streaming down her already-'plain', adolescent face:  
_"Do you think I am an automaton? — a machine without feelings? and can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of living water dashed from my cup? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! — I have as much soul as you — and full as much heart!"_

Of course, by the time she had developed the taste and vocabulary for such works, she was supposed to be devoting her time to etiquette and dance lessons and gown fittings – which Edith acknowledged were important, if she were ever to experience _half_ of what she was reading of – but she couldn't relinquish those hours she'd spent with lovely fiery heroines and romantic men of quality. So, she would often sneak downstairs of an evening, and filch one of her father's books: one of the ones too precious (or too provocative) for Lord Grantham to _knowingly_ let his daughters read. That was a part of the delight too, perhaps…to have something that was just hers. Just herself and her characters, and the sweet, comforting scent that lingered in the binding of a dusty, slightly foxed work of literature; that made you want to bury your face in the pages and breathe it in.

It was just when Edith was beginning to fear that the _only_ words of love she'd hear would be those whispered to herself that Anthony Strallan came into her life. And oh, he was the most beautiful work she was ever permitted to touch. Again, Mary didn't understand the attraction: which was a blessing, this time around. Their story proved to be a rather winding one – quite a Comedy of Errors, except that it broke both their hearts – but then oh, the resolution was sweet.

And it all felt so worthwhile, when Edith could finally press close against him, take some quiet moment to bury her face in his lapel and just breathe him in…that masculine, comforting scent that went straight to her head. (He was rather like a subtle wine that way: so comforting and warming…and the next thing you know, your legs can barely hold you up _and you don't mind in the least_.)

And later, wonderfully, in the privacy of their rooms, she was allowed to open him up. Between the covers Anthony was – no, he was _more than_ – a Lancelot or Tristan… He was something that none of her dream-lovers had been, because he was real; so warm and tangible.

At night he passed his good hand over her body; and it was all so much _better_ than those overwritten trysts she'd used to smuggle from her father's library, to read alone in bed with flushed cheeks. Her husband's heated kisses, his knowing touch...they set her more alight than the most daring lines of Donne. And while Anthony loved her, he would whisper lines that Keats could not have written, words that made her breath catch in her throat. It was all so impossibly beautiful.

Her only fear was that there were too few pages left. Edith never could bear to find that she'd reached the end of something lovely. But of course, _that_ was no reason not to take up such a promising title – one wouldn't set aside a volume of gorgeous poetry, merely because the volume was a slim one. And the awareness of passing time only made her read each page more intently, savouring every line.

She thought of Shakespeare:  
_"This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,  
To love that well which thou must leave ere long."  
_And oh, she loved him well already. She would love him as long as she could.

His wedding present to her was a first edition of Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads; and as she printed "_Lady Edith Strallan_" inside the cover, the woman smiled to herself.  
It was a very promising title, indeed.


End file.
